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“Better thannocoffee.”
“You didn’t even bother to keep track of the cups, Phillips.”
“We fixed that issue, remember?”
Hunter heaves a sigh. “Fine. But only because I left my favorite sweatshirt in my locker at the rink.”
“Thank you.” I grab my phone and coffee off the kitchen table, then head upstairs.
When Hunter and I walk into the lobby of the rink, the chatter of young, excited voices is literally bouncing off the walls.
I’ve never really gotten why Conor volunteers with the local PeeWee team. He’s by far the best player at Holt, could easily have played for a Division I school, and I know he must get frustrated by the talent discrepancy between himself and other guys on the ice, myself included.
Spending time around little kids still figuring out the basics sounds like it would be ten times worse. But seeing the awed, admiring expressions of the kids passing us with miniature hockey bags slung across small shoulders, most of them escorted by a parent, makes me smile.
I still remember my first exposure to hockey—a pro game when I was eight. My older brother Jameson chose not to go, so it was just me and my dad. Plus the man my dad was trying to purchase a company from. The only reason that detail sticks in my head is because it’s why my dad opted for rinkside seats, so close to the boards I could reach out and touch the players.
From the first second those big, hulking guys appeared, speeding across the ice effortlessly, I was hooked.
And now I’m one of those big, hulking guys, at least in these kids’ eyes.
It’s a strange realization, one I’m not entirely sure how to feel about. Kind of like I already peaked and kind of like I should have been lifting weights last night instead of doing shots. Half-nostalgia, half-regret.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” Hunter says, shaking his head slightly as we pass through the lobby and the rink comes into view.
Hart is out on the ice, which is nothing new. He often stays late after our practices, so it’s no surprise he’d do the same after coaching kids, which isn’t much of a workout. Whatisnew is that he’s not alone out there. The flash of Harlow’s red hair is impossible to miss against the white backdrop.
“Me neither,” I agree.
Conor getting a girlfriend was not on my bingo card for this season. He didn’t have the same reputation I do, but he definitely enjoyed his single status. Him getting serious about a girl,especially right before hopefully winning the championship he’s been chasing since freshman year, was a surprise.
I feel like I could take some credit for the happy couple we’re watching. Up until I all but forced him to a few months ago, I’m not sure if Hart had ever said a single word in Harlow’s presence.
You’d never know that, looking at them now.
I might miss having him around lately and the wild nights when we would go out and let loose together, but I’m also relieved.
I’ve been worried how Conor might handle the end of the season. If we don’t win a championship, if he doesn’t get a call during free agent season, if this is how his career ends, I’m relieved he’ll have Harlow. That his world is no longer exclusively centered around hockey. I’m happy for him.
Conor spots us walking along the boards and steers Harlow this way. And I do meansteers. I’m not sure you could call what she’s doing skating.
Since I’ve never seen Harlow look anything except in total control and completely at ease, I can’t help but grin at the sight of her clinging to Conor like he’s the only thing anchoring her from a twenty-foot drop.
“Hey, Harlow.” Hunter is the first to speak when we meet at the home bench, and I shoot him a skeptical look. He was the one who had doubts about them, who told Hart he was losing focus and a relationship would be a mistake.
I was the one who not only engineered their first conversation but also encouraged Conor to reach out to Harlow over break. Partly so I didn’t have to deal with his sulking, but it should still count.
That’s Hunter, though. He’s never afraid to share his opinion. He’s also quick to move on and mind his own business.
“Hey, guys,” Harlow says.
Her cheeks are noticeably red for her only exertion being pulled around on the ice.
Conor looks at her with a soft expression that I’d never seen him wear before recently. Harlow glances at him, her cheeks growing redder, and I realize she’s not flushed from skating.
I should probably buy more earplugs. The honeymoon phase appears to still be in full effect.
“What are you guys doing here?” Conor asks.
